


Holding down the Fort

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Children of Characters, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos finally convinces Anne and Aramis to go on a date - leaving him babysitting the kiddo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding down the Fort

**Author's Note:**

> This was a request I got a million years ago... finally writing it, wheeeee.  
> (All the modern AUs in which Anne and Porthos just conspire against Aramis all the time.)
> 
> If you're wondering why the dauphin is named Isaac instead of Louis in this fic, I refer you to [this](http://polyportamis.tumblr.com/post/127661229661/jlarinda-au-in-which-anne-aramis-raise-the) post.

It starts to rain about half an hour before Aramis and Anne are set to go out on their date and Aramis takes this as a cosmic sign that they shouldn’t leave. He says as much, staring out the window like it’s the worst possible tragedy to ever befall them. Anne is getting ready at the mirror and just looks politely amused and Porthos, sitting in a chair across the room and fiddling with getting some batteries back into the remote control that Aramis stole earlier for the baby monitor he was half-ready to take with him to the movies. He makes a show of snorting. 

But Aramis just shakes his head, “Going on a date in the rain is bad luck.”

“Our first date happened in the rain,” Porthos reminds him. “You spent the whole time shivering because you didn’t wear a coat.” 

Aramis purses his lips and looks over towards Anne for assistance. 

She’s adjusting her earring and gives him a dimpling smile. “Our first date, it was cloudy, I think.” 

“There, see!” Aramis says, gesturing towards her. “It’s bad luck for _us_ to go on a date in the rain!” 

“You’re going,” Porthos cuts in before Anne can say anything. He looks up, setting down the controller for the TV and moving towards Aramis, pushing him back towards Anne. “Go get ready. I’m kicking you out of here in at least twenty minutes. You two haven’t gone out in months.” 

Aramis looks like he’s going to protest but Anne glances at Porthos and then says, casually, “It would be nice… it’s been a while.” 

Aramis deflates, looking stricken. Anne smiles at him sweetly. Porthos pushes him again towards the bathroom and he stumbles in there and starts doing up his hair. “I hate it when you two team up against me,” he tells his reflection. “It’s cruel!” 

“You’re just easy to read,” Porthos says with a sigh, and gives Anne a small smile. She smiles back and shrugs. 

Twenty minutes later, Aramis sweeps out of his room looking far more dazzling (his words) than he was before. The rain is letting up outside, but he’s shrugging into his coat, anyway – as slowly as humanly possible. Anne is fussing over Isaac, who is busy pounding a plastic mallet against the couch cushion. 

“Maybe I should stay after all,” Aramis mutters, then takes one look at Anne and gives her one of his embarrassed smiles. “Or – he could come with us?”

“That’s not going to happen,” Porthos interrupts, shooing Aramis away towards the door. He doesn’t shoo Anne – she is not so easily shooed – but he does give her a long look before she relents and moves to Aramis’ side. They both hover a little. He sighs out. “Go. I can handle the kid for one night. You two go have fun.”

Aramis makes a mournful sound even as Anne laughs softly, looping her arm with his. She, at least, is not nearly as relentless about this – and it was even her idea to go on a date and have a night off in the first place. Porthos offered and Anne was one to take that step and suggest it to Aramis in the first place. Ever since Isaac was born, Aramis has been loathed to leave the apartment for any reason other than absolute necessity. And even then he often brought his son along with him. Porthos knows that Anne doesn’t blame Aramis for the sentiment – feels it herself on some level – but it’s true it’s been a long time since they’ve gone out together, just the two of them. 

“… You’ll call me if something goes wrong?” Aramis asks, which is his way of relenting in one form or another. He can’t deny Anne anything – he can deny Porthos even less.

“You’ll be the first to know. I’ll even call the theater if something—” He’s about to say ‘goes wrong’ and curbs away from the words at the last moment, lest he send Aramis into a tailspin of worry. “Just don’t worry about it, you idiot.”

“I’ll text you what theater we’re in and the seats,” Aramis agrees, grinning and looking relieved. “So they’ll know where to find us. You can call the theater if you need to. Just for added security.”

It takes about ten more minutes of the parents saying goodbye to their son before it even looks like they’ll actually leave. Porthos wonders if they’re already missing their movie. Aramis pets through his son’s hair and says, “So you be good for daddy, okay? He’s looking forward to spending time with you tonight so you have to be good. He’s going to tell Mama and Papa all about your night, so listen to him, alright?” 

“Yup,” Isaac agrees, with as much gravity as a toddler can handle while hitting his plastic mallet against his stuffed dolphin toy. Aramis looks as if he’s going to melt, especially when Isaac decides it’s better to boop his papa’s nose with that mallet – a little harder than probably necessary, judging by the way Aramis’ eyes water up. Or that might just be because he’s a sentimental fool. 

He pets through Isaac’s hair some more and then he looks up. Porthos heaves a long sigh, knowing what’s coming. 

Aramis gives Porthos a hopeful look and says, “Maybe he _could_ come with us…” 

“Just go already, you fool,” Porthos says with a laugh. Aramis never did master the art of the puppy eyes – not the way his son most certainly has – and he certainly never had any success with it when it came to Porthos. He moves closer, dropping a kiss onto Aramis’ lips before shooing him away, smiling and hugging Anne goodbye before the two depart. 

She glances over her shoulder as Aramis starts carrying on, “Anne, our son is going to forget about me!” 

Anne sends Porthos her soft, dimpled smile and mouths out a silent, “Thank you.” 

Aramis continues, “I think I need a kiss…!” 

She shuts the door behind her as Porthos waves them off. 

He waits about thirty seconds, standing at the door and ready to shove Aramis back out again if he were to attempt to come back. Satisfied that they _are_ actually leaving – likely to spend a date the entire time trying to pacify Aramis or worrying together in tandem – he turns back towards where Isaac continues to pound his little fist against the carpet. 

“Looks like it’s just you and me tonight, little man,” Porthos tells him.

“Yup,” he chirps back. He continues his relentless drumming. “Ma-ma-ma-ma-ma,” he adds. And then a resounding, “Pa-pa-pa-pa.” 

“They’ll be back soon,” Porthos agrees. For all Aramis’ doting and Anne’s warm gestures, Isaac is a remarkably self-sufficient little kid. Porthos settles down at the couch, away enough that he won’t interrupt Isaac’s important pursuits. 

Isaac mostly occupies himself for about fifteen minutes, but eventually he comes over and hits the plastic mallet against Porthos’ knee and then offers him a plastic screwdriver meant to accompany the hammer he’s holding. 

“Well hey,” Porthos says, “Thanks, pipsqueak.” 

Isaac grins at him and hits at his knee again. Porthos can’t exactly return the favor – and figures Aramis would materialize from behind the couch to murder him for whacking his son’s knee – but he does drum the screwdriver against the couch cushion with him. 

He and Isaac have always gotten along for the most part. Aramis insists he’s Isaac’s ‘dad’, even if, relatively speaking, Porthos takes a backseat in favor of letting Anne and Aramis have their moments with their son. Their entire situation has been working for them – although there have been times when Porthos has suggested that maybe he should move out, let them have their space as a family. These suggestions lead to some of his only fights with Aramis – who always insists, point-blank, that Porthos is part of the family, too. 

It isn’t that he dislikes being here. On the contrary, he loves being here. He drums his screwdriver against a seat cushion while Isaac giggles and lets out a string of singing, “Ba da da da!” 

He does better with Isaac, he soon finds over the course of the evening, when he can simply be with the kid. He spends so much time hovering back, letting Anne or Aramis step in, not wanting to interrupt them, not wanting to intrude on what he knows is a precious thing – for the both of them, and for Isaac himself (he could never deny a child his opportunities to be with his parents, he never could do that—). It’s easier to interact with Isaac when he doesn’t have Aramis hovering in the background, ready to sweep in at the slightest offense. Or, much worse, look at Porthos teary-eyed as if he is the most amazing man on the planet for acknowledging that a child exists – and he’s not, he’s _not_ amazing for loving this kid, because every kid deserves to be loved. He could never—

He reaches out, suddenly, and pets his hand over Isaac’s hair – blonde and wispy beneath his touch. And he’s so small and he’s so tiny and he _does_ love him. He didn’t think he ever could to this level but he does. It doesn’t matter that Isaac isn’t “his”. He and Aramis were together for years – almost two decades at this point, since they were teenagers – and this feels as much as coming home as he ever thought was possible. 

Isaac makes one of his silly baby noises and toddles over to fetch more toys for him and Porthos. While his back is turned, Porthos presses the butt of his palm to his eyes, wiping at them furiously – not wanting the kid to see, not wanting to upset him. 

He plays with Isaac for a while and feeds him his dinner – or at least tries to have him not wear all of it and ruin the overalls covered in dolphins and sharks that Anne favors for her son – and eventually scoops him up and carries him to bed. Isaac giggles the entire way, arms outstretched like an airplane while Porthos sweeps him around. The kid is so tiny, so easy to lift – and he lets him whirl around a few times before depositing him into his bed. 

“You alright then, little man?” Porthos asks, tugging off one of his socks – how can his feet be so tiny? Porthos can never handle his little feet without becoming a ridiculous, charmed mess – and helping him get into his pajamas. 

“Yup,” Isaac agrees, and giggles stupidly when Porthos tickles at the bottom of his foot. He kicks out – with more force than Porthos expected – and shrieks out a high-pitched laugh. 

“Want a story?” 

“Yup,” Isaac agrees again. He wriggles a little until he gets comfortable and dictates to Porthos which story he wants – screaming when Porthos chooses the wrong one until he coos out in delight at the one he actually wants. 

Isaac is already droopy-eyed by the time the story is over and Porthos reaches out, brushes back his hair again, gently and says, “Sleep well.”

“Mama and Papa?” Isaac asks, blinking sleepily up at Porthos.

“They’ll come in to say goodnight once they’re back,” Porthos agrees. 

Isaac nods solemnly and closes his eyes. Porthos wonders for a moment if he’s somehow already fallen asleep. He starts to stand. 

“Sleep well,” he tells him again. 

“Okay,” he says, quiet, “Goodnight, daddy.” 

Which makes Porthos freeze in his spot. He’s never been called that before. He breathes out, suddenly shaking all over, and he nods. “Yeah. Goodnight.” 

He switches off the light after making sure the nightlight is in place, and leaves the door open a crack – the way Isaac likes. And then makes a hasty retreat to the other side of the house so that Isaac won’t overhear the small, involuntary sob of happiness that Porthos hiccups out. 

When Aramis and Anne return home several hours later, it’s to find Porthos teary-eyed on the couch. 

Aramis is at him instantly. “Oh God, what happened – oh god did he—”

Porthos waves him away – can’t help but laugh at the reaction and shakes his head. “No, no, I’m fine. _He’s_ fine. I told him you’d come say goodnight once you got home. Go.”

Aramis hovers for one moment – clearly torn between offering comfort to whatever mysterious tragedy has befallen Porthos, but also clearly unsure if maybe his son hasn’t met some horrible end and Porthos is sparring him (as if). Porthos pushes at his hip with his foot and eventually Aramis does stumble after Anne towards their son’s room so he can say his goodnights and reassure himself that his son is safe and well and did not self-destruct in a three hour absence. 

Aramis comes back out a few minutes later and goes to where Porthos sits on the couch crying. Aramis goes to him immediately, reaching out to touch his face and tip his chin up so he can look at him, alarmed. 

“Porthos,” he whispers, properly alarmed now. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Porthos laughs again, self-deprecating, and shakes his head. “I just – he took me by surprise.” 

“Did he hurt you?” Aramis asks, his voice so incredibly incredulous that Porthos has to laugh again. 

“He has a strong kick,” Porthos agrees, but shakes his head before Aramis can get properly worried. “No, he – he called me…” He feels strange to say it, feels strange to be this stupidly happy and overwhelmed by it. But it makes him happy. For once, he feels like he belongs. “He called me ‘daddy’. He’s never done that before.” 

It isn’t that he thought Isaac didn’t like him – of course not, the kid was opaque with his affections and it was _always_ clear when he didn’t like someone (it took about three months for him to warm up to Athos enough that he doesn’t immediately tug hard on his hair whenever he visits). But it’s different. It’s one thing for Aramis to say he’s part of the family, to always feel that he doesn’t fit there, that he is the odd one out in looks and in place, in emotional connection as well as the obvious lack of shared genetics. This, though. This is the way to make him feel differently – to make him feel, finally, like he’s accepted. It’s another thing entirely to have the kid himself state his belonging, like it is easy – like it was never even a question in the first place.

Aramis blinks at him – and then Porthos watches as the worry melts away from him completely and he shifts closer, cupping Porthos’ face – traces his thumb down over the scar above his eye, an old wound from their days in the army – and he grins at him, overwhelmed, before he leans in and kisses Porthos again and again. 

“Because you _are_ ,” Aramis whispers against his mouth, and Porthos makes a soft, pitiful sound – overwhelmed but _happy_. “I didn’t – you’re that emotional about it?”

Porthos laughs, bumps his forehead gently to his, and admits, “I never… I didn’t know if he thought of me like that.” He closes his eyes, sniffling. “He thinks I’m his family.” 

“Porthos,” he whispers, heartbroken – and kisses him, slides his fingers into his hair, “You _always_ were.” 

Porthos manages a small nod, a hiccuping laugh around a small, happy sob – feels embarrassed by the reaction and yet unable to fight against it. Aramis just keeps kissing him, stroking his fingers through his hair, along his jaw. Eventually, Porthos leans forward, curls his arms around Aramis, and holds him close. For years, Aramis has been his family – never doubting that. This, though, this is almost too much—

“I don’t know if I should be jealous or not,” Aramis whispers, brushing his nose to his, cupping Porthos’ cheek to wipe away at a tear there. “That he can manage to make you this happy.” 

Porthos laughs, tries to duck his head away and ends up just thumping his forehead gently against Aramis’. Aramis’ face has gone all soft, warm – loving. He loves him. 

“I love that kid,” Porthos whispers, “of course this would make me happy.”

He knows it’s the right thing to say because Aramis utterly beams at him. The best way to make him happy is to compliment his son, of course. Aramis kisses him, deep and pressing – and Porthos sighs out, finally feels the last of his tears ebb away in favor of kissing Aramis.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
